


as you wish

by polkadot



Series: la vache et le dauphin [3]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Five Plus One, M/M, Sarcasm, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Benoit told Stan to stop thinking, and one time Stan had an answer.</p><p>(Or maybe twelve times, or sixteen. Oops.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	as you wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alcatorda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcatorda/gifts).



> **Notes** : So this fic kind of grew and developed a mind of its own. It was initially supposed to be a cute little vignette focusing on Stan's win over Andy, and then, well, it grew into something massive and shaggy and took nearly a month to write. Oops. Hopefully it's still a tiny bit charming, because goodness knows the boys continue to be. :)
> 
> As always, imagine this fic to be a translation of what's actually happening (as that would be in French). It follows [on that you can rely](http://archiveofourown.org/works/760711) and [becoming stanley](http://archiveofourown.org/works/767069); technically you could probably read it on its own, but I'd recommend reading the other two first.
> 
> Dedicated to Alcatorda, who finds the best Benoit interviews, and even translates some of them for us. <3
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : This is a work of fiction. Nothing is implied about the actual Benoit and Stan or any minor characters.

i.

All things considered, Stan isn’t incredibly surprised when David thrashes him again. 

Rumour is that the Armada has Playstation nights, with complicated draws and rules and a boatload of trash-talk over pizza and beer. Stan’s not sure if he entirely believes the stories: he can’t quite see Uncle Toni letting Rafa drink beer, at least not during tournaments. 

(After tournaments - maybe. After the Armada won the Davis Cup last year, Fer showed Stan some videos of their celebrations: gloriously drunk, bouncing on beds, dancing on tables, fencing with racquets, falling into each other’s arms with happy abandon, dancing together, grinding against each other with blithe unconcern… Stan may still be hung up on a certain person despite his recent efforts to break free, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the Armada in moments of joy. He can appreciate the beautiful lines of Feli’s body, the filthy excellence of Fer’s dance moves, and most of all the breathtaking openness of Rafa’s face as he laughs, free in tipsiness and victory, free to let go…)

Stan shakes his head. If the memory of a pack of drunkenly gorgeous Spaniards is enough to make him go hot around the collar and entirely derail his train of thought, he really needs to deal with his getting laid problem. The _point_ , of course, isn’t the Armada’s Davis Cup celebrations, however distracting they might be, it’s David’s obscenely good Playstation skills.

(At least that’s what Stan’s going to keep telling himself.)

“You know what your problem is?” 

The rapid-fire question catches Stan off guard. David doesn’t speak French, and Stan’s Spanish is hilariously bad, so they’ve been communicating mainly in smiles and hand gestures. If Stan was playing another Spaniard they would no doubt have long since figured out some way of trash talking – cheerfully graphic mime, probably – but Stan isn’t much of a trash-talker and David’s even less of one. 

The French, it turns out, belongs to a grinning beanpole of a kid. A kid who flops down in David’s seat, picks up his abandoned controller, and sunnily beams in Stan’s direction – all of which would be slightly less disconcerting if Stan had the least clue who he was.

Stan looks around for David, but he’s gone over to sit next to Rafa, and seems to be in the middle of a joke that makes Rafa’s eyes crinkle up. Stan hopes it doesn’t have anything to do with him. 

His paranoia aside, it looks like he’s stuck with the kid. “What’s my problem?”

“Sorry, I take that back,” the kid says, waving David’s abandoned controller around. “I shouldn’t have implied that you have only _one_ problem. That was too nice.”

Stan quirks an eyebrow at him. “You wouldn’t want to be too nice.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” the kid says, and his grin is infectious. For some reason it makes Stan want to grin back. 

Perhaps that’s why he decides to humour the kid for a moment. “Okay, so what’s my first problem, then?” 

“Hmm,” the kid says, stretching out his long legs and sticking his feet all over the table in an extravagantly indolent pose. His shoes aren’t particularly clean. Stan looks at them pointedly – it’s never nice to make more work for the locker room staff – but when he looks back up, the kid’s just grinning at him again, unfazed.“It’s tough to know where to start.”

Who _is_ this kid, anyway? Stan vaguely remembers maybe seeing him around in early days at a tournament before – perhaps Roland Garros? – but he’s never played him, and Stan doesn’t have a coach to exhaustively prepare data on everyone in the top 250. Obviously the kid’s French, but the French Legion is nearly as big as the Spanish Armada.

“I’ve decided,” the kid announces. “We’ll start with the way you’re holding that controller. It’s not a hunk of electronics.”

Stan looks at it, bemused. “It’s not?”

“No,” the kid says indignantly, and punches Stan in the shoulder, not hard. “Don’t insult it. It’s your _weapon_.”

“Ow?” Stan says, rubbing his shoulder. “Do you usually go around assaulting people you don’t know? It’s not like the controller can hear me.”

“One, yes it can,” the kid informs him solemnly, and Stan isn’t sure whether he’s joking. “Two, I only hit people if I like them. Three, pssh, I totally know you.”

Stan darts another glance sideways, trying to read the kid’s face. It’s a lively one, mouth tilted upwards, eyes sparkling bright and challenging back at him. But he doesn’t recognise it. 

The kid doesn’t look like he’s likely to take pity on him anytime soon, either. He’s going to force Stan to admit that he doesn’t have a donkey’s clue who he is, and then he’s going to reveal that he was Stan’s ball-boy once or, heavens forbid, played him in something after all, and Stan’s going to be mortified.

The controller taps Stan on the end of the nose, and he blinks.

“That,” says the kid, and he’s grinning that infectious grin again. “That’s your main problem.”

David’s detached himself from Rafa and is on his way back over, a slightly puzzled look on his face. Probably looking for a rematch, not that a rematch would end any differently - damn the Armada's Playstation skills. Stan wonders whether he knows the kid who’s currently ignoring all the personal space boundaries of the US Open locker room. 

He refuses to ask this time. He just raises an eyebrow at the kid.

The kid’s grin is even wider this close up. “Your main problem is that you think too much,” he informs Stan, before setting the controller gently on the table and standing up. When he turns back to Stan, he winks. “Stop thinking so much.”

And before Stan can do more than open his mouth to protest, the kid’s reached down, rumpled Stan’s hair in benediction, then breezed off towards the door.

David sinks down on the couch next to him a moment later and picks up his controller. His forehead looks massively quizzical. “ _¿Qué fue eso_?”

Stan spreads his hands helplessly. _Don’t even ask_.

(Later, months later, Stan’s at a 250 in Stockholm when he hears the ominous words “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” The kid grins just like Stan remembers, and when Lionel says, “This is Benoit,” the name falls into place like he’s always known it. He finds himself grinning back.) 

~//~

_interludes_

_valencia, october 2010_

“Sitting all by yourself and staring into space?” Benoit says, dropping down on the bench next to Stan and stealing one of his pizza slices with assured aplomb. “Stanley, are you thinking again?”

Stan pulls his plate away to protect the remainder of his lunch. “You really have a problem with me thinking.”

Benoit chews, the sound noisy. He swallows. “Don’t get me wrong, you look all soulful when you think. I’m sure your milkshake brings all the ladies to the yard. But being in your head all the time isn’t good for you either.” He takes another enormous bite of pizza, then adds something that sounds a bit like, “I should know.”

Stan sighs. Perhaps he _had_ been brooding again. Impossible to brood around Benoit, though. “What would you suggest?”

Benoit grins. There’s pizza sauce straggling up his lip. “Now you’re talking.” He slaps Stan on the shoulder. “Get a racquet, we’re going to have a dropper contest.”

Stan looks helplessly down at his half-finished lunch. “I’ve just eaten!”

“Good,” Benoit says. “You’ll be slower. I’ll win. Now come on!”

~//~

_australian open, january 2011_

Perhaps Stan shouldn’t be surprised that nobody’s talking to him. You walk on out your wife and baby daughter because they’re supposedly distracting you from your tennis, and suddenly everyone’s looking the other way when you walk in the locker room.

It doesn’t matter if the real reason isn’t about tennis at all, it doesn’t matter that you finally summoned the courage to admit that you’re gay, it doesn’t matter that you ache with missing your little girl. Nothing matters, except what you’ve done...

The world-weary sigh next to his elbow makes Stan jump. “What have I told you, Stanley, about thinking?”

“Not to do it,” Stan says, as Benoit squishes into the small space next to him and bumps him with his hip to make him move over. “I don’t know what you have against thinking.”

Benoit sighs again. “When you think, you look like the world’s about to end.” He holds up a cautionary finger. “Now, if it really is, you should tell me and I’ll go find a nice Australian to shack up with for my last few hours. Australians seem very friendly. But if it isn’t, you should stop thinking already and come practice with me.”

Stan looks at him out of the side of his eye. “Why do you want to practice with me?” He doesn’t need anyone feeling sorry for him. 

But Benoit just grins. “You’ve got a good practice court. We lowly Challenger types don’t have the pull of you superstars.”

Stan feels the tug of a smile at his lips, unfamiliar these days. “Using me for my practice court. Did no one ever teach you manners?”

“If you want manners, you’ve come to the wrong Frenchman,” Benoit says, and pulls him up bodily. “Come on, get a move on, I want a practice partner, not a slug.”

~//~

_roland garros, may 2011_

“I really don’t know what you do when I’m not around to stop you from thinking.”

Stan knows who it is before he turns around, even though he hasn’t seen him in months. Not since the Australian Open, where Benoit won his first ever Grand Slam main draw match and Stan made the quarterfinals before losing to Roger. He’s got Roger in the round of 16 this time; a far way off, but still looming large.

Benoit looks good. He’s still as skinny as ever, still grinning just as widely. “So I just have a quick question and then I’ll let you get back to your all-important thinking.”

“Hello to you too, Ben,” Stan says. He can’t quite suppress a smile.

Benoit nods, but doesn’t waste any more time on pleasantries. “Do you have any socks?”

“Socks,” Stan says, blankly. “Uh, yes?”

Benoit grins. “Can I borrow some?”

“You want to borrow my socks,” Stan repeats, just to make sure.

Benoit makes an expansive gesture that Stan thinks is supposed to represent his bereftness of all soft footwear. “You see, I was going to get my laundry done yesterday, and then I kind of forgot, and none of the socks on my floor pass the smell test…”

Stan cuts him off before this horrifying saga can be expounded on any further. “Yes, yes, you can have a pair of socks. Although have you ever heard of these things called stores?”

“Well, you see, I _would_ go to the shop near the hotel…” Benoit starts, but Stan’s already diving for his gear bag and finding a clean pair of socks to throw at his head. Ben’s stories never end well.

~//~

_queens club, june 2011_

“Stop thinking,” Benoit says, flopping down on the grass next to him. “Wait, I was wrong. Don’t stop thinking. Stop sulking.”

“I’m not sulking,” Stan says, sulkily, his arm still over his eyes.

Benoit’s snort betrays his dubiousness. “If this is still about you losing to some British player ranked in the 200s, get over it. At least you got to the second round. I didn’t even get out of the first, thanks to Arnaud.” He sighs. “It’s just a warm-up anyways. The real prize is Wimbledon.”

That’s the truth. Stan lets himself think of Wimbledon for a moment, lets himself imagine what it would be like to hoist that beautiful trophy, steal Roger’s favourite Slam out from under his nose…

“Stop thinking,” Benoit says, and raps him on the elbow.

Stan opens his eyes with a squawk of outrage, and then freezes. “Ben,” he says slowly, “what the _hell_ are you wearing?”

Benoit grins, making a show of looking down at himself. “Do you like it? I’m tired of tan lines.”

“You can’t tan in a Speedo at the _Queens Club_ ,” Stan hisses, although he’s pretty sure a raised voice wouldn't appall the powers-that-be more than Benoit’s fashion sense.

“I can do anything I want to do,” Benoit says, and sticks his tongue out.

“You’re going to get cancer,” Stan warns. His nose has started to itch. Maybe he should reapply his sun lotion.

Ben wrinkles his forehead. “Your sense of humour’s got cancer.”

And that doesn’t even make any sense, but Stan finds himself laughing anyway.

~//~

_wimbledon, june 2011_

Benoit takes one look at him and says, “Come on, we’re getting drunk.”

“You’re not going to tell me to stop thinking?” Stan asks, feeling vaguely cheated.

“Wouldn’t do any good,” Benoit says, laconically.

The next morning, Stan remembers telling Benoit that it really sucks losing early. It really really sucks. And the fact that Ben lost earlier, well, that doesn’t count, because that was Ferru, and Ben is Ben and David is David, but Stan is Stan and he was going to steal Roger’s trophy and drink champagne out of it and now he has to go home empty-handed, except he doesn’t have a home because he’s lost his home and his little girl and all he has are his tennis racquets and a tennis game that apparently can’t even beat stupid Italians and their stupid tiebreaks…

Stan stops trying to remember at that point. At least he didn’t throw up. - At least he doesn’t think he threw up.

“Stop breathing so loudly,” Benoit says, from the sofa. His voice sounds as crappy as Stan feels.

“Remind me never to follow any of your plans ever again,” Stan says, and pads into the bathroom for a glass of water.

“My plans are awesome,” he hears Benoit say loftily, before groaning. 

Stan gets him a glass of water too, out of the charity of his heart.

~//~

_us open, august 2011_

When Benoit finds Stan sitting on his hotel sofa staring at a picture of Alexia, he doesn’t make an excuse to be elsewhere. He doesn’t defuse things with a joke. He doesn’t drag Stan out for pizza and beer. He doesn’t even tell Stan to stop thinking.

Instead, he picks up Stan’s phone and hands it to him. “Call her,” he says, quietly.

And maybe that’s the impetus Stan needs. 

It’s never going to be easy, but maybe the conversation he has with Ilham that day – stumbling, awkward, and halting as it is – will be the beginning of a new understanding.

He never thanks Benoit for prodding him into it, but he thinks Benoit knows.

~//~

_australian open, january 2012_

“You’re buying dinner,” Benoit announces, flopping down on Stan’s sofa. “You beat a man and snatch all of his dreams out of his hands, the least you can do is buy him dinner.”

Stan would normally roll his eyes, but he’s just got off the phone with his daughter for her daily storytime, so he’s in a good mood. He also does feel just the littlest bit guilty for dumping Ben out of the tournament. “Fine.”

Benoit chooses what must be one of the most expensive restaurants in Melbourne, and then spends most of the meal cheerfully finding fault with all the dishes. Typical. Stan would be annoyed except that he’s right every time. (Not that he’s going to tell Benoit that. Benoit’s head is big enough already.)

Eventually Stan tunes out Benoit’s suspicious prodding of the fish course to go over his game plan for his next…

“Nuh uh,” Benoit says, and claps a hand down on top of his insistently. “I know that look. Stop thinking right now.”

“Hey,” Stan protests. “Behave yourself. This is a nice place.”

Benoit frowns down at his plate. “It doesn’t have nice food.”

“You picked it,” Stan says, exasperated.

Benoit stands up, decisively. “And now I’m picking Burger King. Or, as it’s called in Aussie, Hungry Jack’s. Come on, I’ve just had the most glorious idea, and you’re going to want to hear it. It means we get to take over the world together.”

Can Stan do anything but follow?

~//~

_davis cup, february 2012_

They’re supposed to leave their phones in their lockers, but rules don’t always apply to Rog. Stan isn’t entirely surprised when Rog’s pocket buzzes halfway through Marco’s match.

They’re also supposed to be paying attention to Marco, but since they’ve already lost not only the tie but every one of the first four rubbers, Stan also isn’t entirely surprised when Rog surreptitiously answers. (After all, that’s his private line, so it has to be somebody he’d actually want to talk to.)

What _does_ surprise Stan, however, is Rog wrinkling his forehead and turning to hand him the phone. “It’s for you,” Rog whispers, looking as confused as Stan feels.

Stan hides it in his hand and slips away to the little players’ restroom just off court. “Hello?” he says, tentatively.

“Stop thinking,” Benoit says. “Sorry, I had to get that out of the way.”

Stan thumps his head against the mirror. “Ben. Why are you calling me? No, wait, how did you get Rog’s number?”

“Oh, I got Roger’s number off your phone,” Benoit says, blithely, before yawning. Stan has an instant’s flash of Ben all tucked up in bed, snuggled under the blanket, watching him on TV. “I figured a situation like this might come up.”

Stan considers hanging up, but he can’t quite restrain his curiousity. “What kind of situation?”

“Where I wanted to talk to you but you didn’t have your phone,” Benoit says, like it should be obvious. “Look, I won’t keep you, I know you have to go finish seeing Marco get his butt handed to him, but I wanted to tell you to stop thinking. You look like a sad little dolphin out there on that bench, moping and staring.”

Stan rubs at his eyes. “Do dolphins even look sad? No, wait, don’t answer that.” If Benoit gets started he’ll never stop. “Who did you tell Rog you were?”

“I told him I was the new him,” Benoit says, cheerfully. “Your partner.”

Stan blinks, flashing back all in an instant to a reckless kiss, an awkward rebuff, a strained friendship, a once-close relationship growing ever more distant…No wonder Rog handed him the phone, and no wonder he looked that flummoxed. With what Roger knows about him, and Stan and Ilham just announcing their reunion, and now his “partner” calls - is Rog going to hear the unspoken “doubles” in front of the word, or is he going to think Stan has reunited with Ilham only to sneak around behind her back?

Benoit had no way of knowing, of course, but he’s just gifted Stan a bit of a headache.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Benoit says in a sing-songy voice. “Look, go finish getting thumped by those big stupid Americans, and then call me back from your own phone afterwards and we’ll set up a training plan to get ready for Buenos Aires.”

“Okay,” Stan says faintly.

Benoit laughs. “It’s going to be awesome, champ. I promise.”

And the thing is, Stan actually thinks it might be.

Oh, he doesn’t expect them to win anything. But it’ll be nice to play doubles with a friend. Even if that friend is slightly crazy, incredibly messy, entirely unpredictable, and extremely bossy.

“Looking forward to it,” he says, and not even the prospect of an awkward conversation with Rog can dim his smile.

~//~

ii.

“Thanks for taking her this afternoon,” Ilham says, pushing her hair out of her face. “You know I wouldn’t usually ask when you’re training, but I just couldn’t reschedule…”

Stan shakes his head. “You know I love having her. Say the word and I’m there.”

Ilham bites her lip. Perhaps that was too much - Stan still hasn’t mastered that tightrope that hovers between ‘yes I want to be very involved with my daughter’ and ‘but not with you’. Luckily Ilham is better at it than he is; sometimes he thinks she understands him better than he does himself. (But then sometimes he thinks _Ben_ understands him better than he does himself, so maybe he’s just not very self-aware or something.)

“I know how important training is,” Ilham says now, gesturing towards the court, where Benoit has scooped up their daughter and seems to be formally introducing her to his racquet. “And I know it takes a while to get used to a new doubles partner and everything.” 

She doesn’t mention Rog. Neither will Stan. Rog has been a no-go topic between the two of them ever since Stan blurted out that he was gay and Ilham immediately asked if it was Rog. Given that his feelings on the Rog subject remain complicated even to him, Stan doesn’t know how much she believed his denials.

He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. We did our serious work this morning. We’re just hitting the ball around and getting a sense for each other’s timings, and it’s time for a break anyway.”

Alexia giggles, and they both turn. Their daughter seems to have decided that Benoit’s beard is the most hilarious thing in the history of the universe, and is patting Ben’s face and laughing fit to burst. Benoit’s laughing with her, the two of them instant chums.

“He seems nice,” Ilham says.

Stan watches them together for a moment more before turning back to her. “He’s very young. And of course he’s not…of course he still has a lot to learn. But we play well together.”

Ilham’s ten years older than he is, and he’s five years older than Benoit. The kid’s young enough to be her son; he wonders if that’s what the inscrutable look in her eyes means, as she gazes over his shoulder, watching the two on the tennis court. Does she feel like she’s getting old, just like he does, that her time is fading away? 

“He makes you laugh,” she says, finally.

Stan has to smile. Benoit does make him laugh. When Ilham and Alexia arrived, Benoit had just hit a ridiculous drop shot that he’d camouflaged expertly, and then been crowing incessantly about it. Stan had been laughing helplessly, tipping his head back in the weak January sunlight, when he’d heard Alexia’s delighted cry of “Papa!” and turned to scoop her up in his arms.

“Yes,” he says, simply. “He does.”

She nods, a quick decisive movement, then hands him Alexia’s diaper bag. “Don’t let her hurt herself, okay? Call me if anything comes up.”

Stan salutes, grinning, before he remembers that was something they did back in the old days, back when he was mostly-successfully pretending to be the perfect boyfriend. _Before._

He can see the moment’s hesitation in Ilham’s eyes, but then she smiles, and it’s the most relaxed he’s seen her since his admission and the subsequent tumult. “As you were, soldier,” she says, just as she used to.

Her eyes still crinkle the way they did when he first fell in love with her - or with the idea of her and everything she represented; but then perhaps that’s unkind now, now that they’re over. She doesn’t deserve unkindness, and never has. She loved him, and she gave him the greatest gift he’s ever had. And now she’s giving him that gift again, giving him a second chance with his little girl.

…A little girl who’s currently being tossed up into the air by a tall Frenchman, both of them still bubbling with laughter. Stan winces and turns back to Ilham, hoping she’s not about to frown and say Benoit doesn’t appear to be safe to have around Alexia.

But Ilham’s smiling. “She’ll never want to come home now. You already spoil her, and he’s her new best friend.”

“Thank you,” Stan says impulsively, not even quite sure why he’s thanking her, or what for. Everything, perhaps – for Alexia, for loving him, for continuing to cover for him - everything. 

However he means it, Ilham seems to understand. Her smile softens, and she puts a hand to his cheek. It’s not something they do anymore, casual touch, except when handing Alexia back and forth, but somehow this feels right. Stan closes his eyes for a split second, and her touch feels like a benediction, a blessing.

“Be happy, Stan,” she says, gently. 

After she leaves, Stan stands for a few minutes with Alexia’s diaper bag, staring into the sunshine. 

Then his thoughtful reverie is rudely interrupted.

“Stop thinking!” Benoit calls from across the court. “Get over here and help me entertain your daughter. I’ve run out of ideas.”

Stan grins and starts over, the diaper bag bumping unfamiliarly but not uncomfortably against his hip. “One little girl already flummox you? You, the great champion Benoit Paire?”

“Being a great tennis champion is an entirely different thing than dealing with toddlers,” Benoit says, loftily. 

Despite his protests, however, Benoit looks pretty comfortable with Alexia. She’s perched on his hip and appears to be currently fascinated with his necklace; Stan hopes it’s clean, because if he knows Alexia she’s going to try to taste it at some point.

“Hurry up, slowpoke. Or else I’ll teach her a proper two-handed backhand,” Benoit threatens. “None of this silly one-handed stuff like Papa or Uncle Rog,” he adds, to Alexia. “We’ll set you up with a _proper_ one. Two hands. Boom.”

Stan laughs, and speeds his steps. 

When Alexia sees him, she reaches her arms out, and he takes her and swings her through the air, the three of them laughing under the open sky.

Of course, then Alexia scrambles down and takes off running, and they’re both running after her, Benoit laughing and biting back non-child-safe language and Stan hoping against hope that she doesn’t take a roll in the clay and ruin her clothes. 

They corner her at the net, and decide to go for ice cream. Not that ice cream has any less clothing-destructive potential than clay, but Benoit suggests it, and the two hopeful faces turned towards him are too much for Stan to deny.

It’s a sunshiney day for January, and Stan seems to have finally figured out how to walk the tightrope with Ilham (how, he’s still not quite sure), and his new doubles partnership seems like it may work out rather well, and Alexia’s sticky fingers are going to ruin both her clothes and his and probably Benoit’s, and then Benoit is shoving Alexia in his direction in a bit of a panic and claiming he doesn’t know how to change diapers, and Stan suddenly finds that he doesn’t think he could be much happier in the world.

He throws back his head and laughs.

(Later, years later, Ilham will claim that she knew that day, months and months before they knew themselves. “I didn’t think you were actually together yet,” she’ll say, sneaking a glass of wine with Stan as they watch Benoit frowning and trying to construct a model train set for Alexia’s birthday, despite knowing little to nothing about engineering. [Alexia’s train craze has come on suddenly, and better Benoit than them. It’s his fault for spoiling her anyway.] “Just…” Ilham sighs, searching for words. “He made you laugh, actually laugh. And you hadn’t laughed in a long time.”

Stan can’t remember a time without laughter. “Yes,” he says, and refills his glass. “Yes.”)

~//~

iii.

The thing is, they’re not actually that good at doubles.

“It takes a while to get good,” Benoit protests. “And you’ve had to unlearn all those bad habits you got from playing with Roger.” He steals a chip from Edouard and waves it around in illustration before popping it in his mouth.

Stan raises an eyebrow. “All those bad habits that won me an Olympic gold medal? All those bad habits I got by playing with the greatest tennis player of all time?”

“Yup, those,” Benoit says, grinning, and dodges out of range of a swat. 

Stan looks to the heavens in silent appeal, but no help is forthcoming, whether of the angelic or human variety. Milos, passing by on his way to the salad bar, gives him an amused arch of the eyebrow, but makes no move towards rescue. 

“Anyway,” Benoit says, “it’ll take a while before my epic skills rub off on you.”

At this, Edouard inexplicably drops his head into his arms, his shoulders shaking. Benoit sighs and thumps him on the back, to no apparent effect, then shrugs and steals more of his chips.

Stan keeps a wary eye on Edouard lest these mysterious convulsions prove catching. “ _What_ epic skills? We haven’t even managed to win a match yet!”

“Oh, very nice, make fun of my skills,” Benoit says, folding his arms across his chest and nearly knocking his Coca Cola over onto Edouard in the process. “So we lost in Buenos Aires. Yes, the opening set was a bagel. But we took the second set! We’re fast learners!”

Edouard mutters something into his arms, then yelps. Stan strongly suspects Benoit of kicking him under the table.

“Then you stopped playing with me,” Benoit sails on, “which I still think was _very cruel_. How could one match be an appropriate trial for such an awesome partnership as this?” He indicates the two of them with a magisterially sweeping hand.

Milos passes them again on his way back from the salad bar. Stan gives him a mutely imploring look, but that only makes the big Canadian bite his lip, trying not to laugh. So much for community spirit and helping out one’s fellow man.

“We were bagelled, Ben,” Stan tries. “Maybe it was a sign that we weren’t meant to be.”

“La la la, I can’t hear you,” Benoit says, draining his Coke and holding out his hand for the second can that he made Stan carry. “It was 10-7 in the supertiebreak anyway. Very close. But no, you deserted me to play Monte Carlo with Viktor. _Viktor_.” His snort says exactly what he thinks of Viktor. “And then Rog at the Olympics, of course, but obviously you couldn’t play with me there, and anyway I always knew I’d have to share you with Rog _sometimes_.”

Edouard, who has raised his face again and is looking very red, giggles. Benoit rolls his eyes and kicks him. Stan can feel his foot whoosh by under the table, and hear the thunk as it connects.

“But then after the Olympics you played with Jarkko. What does Jarkko have that I don’t? You deserted me, Stanley, you left me to forge teams willy-nilly with these jokers.” His gesture towards Edouard is contemptuous, and Stan would think he hated the guy, except that he knows for a fact that they’re as thick as thieves.

“I’m sure you and Edouard do very well together,” he says. Ed seems to have mastered his giggles, but Stan’s still slightly worried for his health. He seems to choke on his own breath a lot for no apparent reason. 

Edouard shrugs, grinning. “We do all right. We’d do a lot better if this one didn’t spend half our practices telling me how much better you are, though.”

Benoit glares at him. 

“Go on,” Stan says, laughing.

“Oh, you can’t do that? _Stan_ can do that. Oh, is that what you call a backhand? You should see _Stan_ ’s backhand. Oh, I should have remembered, you can’t hit the lines. _Stan_ makes love to them every day and twice on Sundays. Oh, I forgot, you have such a skinny a…”

He doesn’t get to finish because Benoit, squawking with aggravation, barrels sideways into him and knocks him off the bench. They roll around play-tussling on the floor, drawing all eyes in the cafeteria.

Stan sits back and raises his hands in the universal symbol for “not my fault”. The unamused glares being shot in his direction don’t seem to believe him, though. Perhaps it’s time to intervene. He leans over the table and directs his voice down at the combatants. “Look, Ben, I’m playing with you again, aren’t I? Let him go.”

Benoit’s got Edouard pinned between his legs. He looks up. “Yes, you’re playing with me again, and this time we’re going to be awesome, just you wait and see. But this isn’t about that anymore.”

“What’s it about then?” Stan asks, but Benoit’s already transferred his attention back to pummelling Edouard, and no answer’s forthcoming. He sighs and steals Ben’s Coke instead.

It’s a bit strange to be playing full-time with one person again. He hasn’t had an arrangement like this for a long time; in recent years he’s played with Marcos, Dima, Stephane, Richie, Gael, Kohli, Jo, Yves, Jamie Murray, Nando, Viktor, Jarkko…he’s probably still forgetting a few. He’s never been a real doubles player, never been a Bryan brother, never made doubles a priority and stuck to one partner against the world. It’s just been something he does, for fun, for practice, for a bit of extra cash.

There was Rog, of course. But Rog was an exception. Rog was Rog.

Stan used to feel that nothing he ever did would ever matter much, with Rog always the giant looming shadow. The media doesn’t help, of course, with every interview peppered with his name, but it’s more than that; Rog’s shadow would have weighed just as heavily on Stan’s shoulders even without their help, he thinks. 

And then, suddenly, it lifted. 

Stan’s not sure how it happened, or when, or why, but now he can remember the good times without the sickening swirling feeling in his stomach. He can remember laughter and jokes and easiness, camaraderie and the sparkle in Rog’s eyes that was just for him, joy and celebration and the little calm silences on the court, when they understood each other without the need for any fuss or even words.

Yes, after that came his rash move, and after that the awkwardness, and after that the rest. But even with all that, Stan’s beginning to wonder how much was a true soured relationship, and how much was just normal aftermath, with both of them uncomfortable and not sure how to move forward, but nothing more. If he reached out to Rog – really reached out, not just let them stay settled in the distant politeness of Davis Cup teammates and long acquaintances – he wonders if Rog might not be as glad as him to start again.

He wouldn’t have even considered it a few months ago, but now…

Stan wonders what’s changed. Is he getting more mature? Is he growing into his own skin at last? He feels different these days, happier, more centred, calmer. Almost like something is humming along under his skin, growing, getting stronger - maybe it’s Alexia, maybe becoming a father has made him into somebody new. Maybe it’s his tennis finally falling into place. Maybe it’s just him, finally mastering himself at last.

He can’t help feeling, though, that something he doesn’t quite understand, something small and fluttering, is beating behind his ribcage…

Benoit’s head pokes up above the table. “Stop thinking.”

Stan feels the urge to copy Edouard from earlier and drop his head into his arms. “How do you even know I was thinking?”

Benoit grins. (At some point during the scuffle he’s managed to get a red stain down his shirt. Stan devoutly hopes it’s not blood. Knowing Ben, however, it’s almost surely food-related.) “You’re _always_ thinking. Also, you stopped trying to make us stop.”

“It’s a lost cause,” Stan tells him.

“Much like you two,” Edouard says from the floor, sounding slightly muffled.

Benoit grins, showing his teeth, and dives back in.

(Later, months later, Stan finds himself laughing into the curve of Ben’s hip, as a few things previously mysterious to him become clear. “Is _that_ what he was on about?”

“He guessed,” Benoit says sulkily. “And then he would never leave me _alone_ about it.”

Stan presses a kiss against Benoit’s skin, loving the way that beloved sulky voice catches. “So you tackled him.”

Benoit’s fingers are gentle in his hair, with the slightest bit of pull, just enough to make Stan’s breath come a bit faster. “Well, first I tormented him by telling him about your virtues at every possible moment. And by your virtues I mostly mean your ass.” 

Stan doesn’t quite get why everyone is so enthralled by his ass. It’s an ass. Maybe he doesn’t have the best vantage point to observe it, but really? He turns his neck, trying to see.

“I think,” Ben says, more quietly, “that he half thought I was teasing. We joke a lot.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Stan tells him, then leaves off trying to examine his own back end in favour of kissing Benoit silly. Some things are more important than others.

In his ribcage, the small uncertain flutters have turned roaringly grand; he thinks the butterflies are now a waterfall, enormous and crashing, and he’s throwing himself into it, headfirst.)

~//~

iv.

When Stan sees it, he laughs out loud.

Jo quirks an eyebrow. “Someone actually send you a funny one?”

They’re stuck in the locker room waiting for Tomas and Andy’s match to end so that they can finally get out on the court. Stan doesn’t even want to look at how late it is already; the Madrid tennis gods may be smiling on his results at the moment, but he’s pretty sure the Madrid scheduling people hate his guts. He’ll be lucky to get home before 4 AM at this rate, particularly since he and Jo always seem to play long matches.

He can’t hold that against Jo, though. They’ll both do their best, and whoever wins, wins. 

Meanwhile, they’re waiting through this interminable match together, and Stan’s turned to his Twitter replies to help while away the time. Which is what Jo means by “someone actually send you a funny one” – Stan may have endorsed a fangirl’s attempt to entertain the both of them by enlisting Twitter to send them jokes. The results have been…mixed. (Stan appreciates the effort, and he does smile at some of the submissions. Jo is less impressed. He has high standards.)

“Hey,” Stan tells him, “the jokes have been better than Andy and Tomas’s match out there.”

Usually he wouldn’t be that mean, but he’s feeling a bit ragged tonight. There are some things a man simply shouldn’t have to endure, and one of them is leaving a boyfriend alone in bed on his birthday.

Jo just laughs. “So, what’s this one, then?”

Looking back down at his phone, Stan wills himself not to flush. It could be read as completely innocuous, but if he starts getting flustered Jo really will know something’s up. “It’s not a joke. Just Benoit telling me to hurry up and get back to his birthday party.”

_gagnes vite et rejoins moi!!!_ Stan can hear the words in his brain, just as clearly as if Benoit was standing in front of him, hands on hips and head tilted sideways. He swallows.

“Ah,” Jo says. 

When Stan looks up, Jo’s smiling at him. It’s not a teasing smile, or a mocking one, just Jo’s usual warmness, and yet Stan somehow feels that Jo may guess more than he’s letting on.

They’ve all been around for the Richie saga, after all, the entire French Legion and Stan the adopted Swiss cousin. Poor Richie, who panicked so badly when rumours started going around, who started hijacking every interview to talk about how he might not have a girlfriend, he just has guy friends, but he definitely isn’t gay, in fact he’s going to go out tonight and get himself a [insert country of tournament] girlfriend, they seem nice, wouldn’t that be nice!

They all knew the truth, of course – but then, what is the truth in this situation? When somebody is so scared that they cling to the walls of their closet with such fierceness, you can’t exactly drag them out. You can only support them, make them feel accepted, let them know that they have friends who have their back. Always.

Stan wonders what it would have been like if Richie had been someone else, if he’d had the personality and the desire to come out back when the rumours first leaked to the press. Six years ago now…would the locker room have accepted him back then? Would players have rallied around him and condemned any homophobia? 2007 seems so long ago. Janko’s comments about “perverts” were right around that time, Stan’s pretty sure; the world seems to have changed so much since.

What would it be like now? If Richie were to come out today, would he be accepted? Would his sponsors drop him? Would the fans turn against him? Would players pretend to be nice to his face and then turn away in disgust behind his back? Would he be putting himself at risk of some crazed attack? Would he be able to focus his mind on his tennis, or would his mental state be compromised? Would he be throwing his career away?

Stan closes his eyes. He can be honest with himself, in his own head. This isn’t about Richie. 

Sharing significant looks with your friends and agreeing without ever exactly saying it that someone would probably be a lot happier and more at peace with themselves if they just told the truth - all of that is a lot easier when the someone isn’t _you_.

If he were to look at Jo and say, “Yes, Ben and I are dating,” what would Jo’s reaction be? 

Or are they so obvious that all their friends already know? Sometimes he thinks the whole world must know, that his face must be an open book, that his heart must be on display for everyone to see. It certainly feels that way.

“Your phone’s buzzing,” Jo points out.

Stan opens his eyes and squints at the message on the screen.

_stop thinking!!!!_

He can’t help his Pavlovian response to that familiar chide, biting his lip against the smile that threatens to surface. _who says i’m thinking_

_you always are! also you didn’t reply_

He can see Ben’s pout in his mind’s eye, and this time he can’t hold the smile back. _sorry_

_too busy flirting with jo, i see how it is_

Stan looks up to find Jo carefully gazing down at his newspaper, with a barely-suppressed smile playing about his lips. Yes, Stan’s pretty sure that ship’s sailed. He knew his face was incredibly obvious. 

His phone buzzes again.

_well if i have to fight jo for you i warn you i play dirty_

Stan frowns. _???_

His boyfriend sends him a picture.

After what might be a few moments, or might be a few minutes, Jo says, sounding a bit stifled, “I don’t even want to know.”

Stan, recollecting himself, snaps his mouth closed with a start. “Um, excuse me,” he says, and bolts for the bathroom. 

A cold shower is in his immediate future. Then an entire match against a tough opponent. Then press, cooldown, physio, dinner, and everything else. Then, and only then, can he get back to his hotel room and impress upon his boyfriend the importance of not sending deliciously x-rated pictures to him _right before a match_.

Although, come to think of it, that little stunt _has_ given him a reason to win quickly. 

And even if Stan doesn’t win quickly – even if the match is no hour’s easy play but lasts two long hard-fought sets, or three, or goes into a never-ending third-set-tiebreak – he knows Benoit will be there when he gets back. 

They can work out the rest of it – the friends who suspect, the locker room supporters and haters, the wider world – they can work it all out as they go. Will it be easy? No. He’s not naïve, and he’s not as young as Benoit; he doesn’t have the same blithe confidence that everything he does will work out, whether that be ill-advised drop shots or ill-advised interviews with reporters who only want to talk about tits. 

No, it won’t be easy. It’ll be tough. Tonight’s match will be tough too. But no matter what happens, tonight or from now on, Stan gets to go home at the end. Whatever happens, whatever they decide – whether to stay closeted, whether to come out to close friends only, whether to proclaim it to the universe – they’ll be doing it together, and maybe that’s the most important thing of all.

(Later, long exhausting hours later, he lets himself into their hotel room. Benoit’s left the bathroom light on and the door cracked, so Stan’s able to avoid tripping over the gear bag that always seems to migrate directly into the walkway. Then the sleeping lump that’s hogging all the blankets turns over in their bed and smiles fuzzily up at him, and Stan’s heart flips.

“Hello, birthday boy,” he says, stripping efficiently and easing into bed, far enough away that nobody will roll on top of somebody’s arm and cause a difficult-to-explain injury, but close enough that he can reach out and tangle their hands together.

“Hello, champion,” Benoit says, his voice thick with sleep, and ruins the sensible sleeping arrangement by rolling closer and pressing his lips to Stan’s forehead.

Stan tips his head up and finds Ben’s lips with his own, slow and sleepy in the darkness.

Somehow he forgets to tell Benoit to stop sending him dirty pictures. And if, months later, Gilles steals Stan’s phone and accidentally finds one and screams bloody murder, well, he shouldn’t be stealing people’s phones anyway. Especially when he knows that person’s in a relationship and might have dirty pictures lying around. Jo and Julien will laugh themselves sick at Gilles’s reaction, and Edouard will try to grab the phone and critique Benoit’s pose, and even Richie will crack a shy smile…

But for now, Stan just kisses Benoit and lets the future be the future.)

~//~

_interludes_

_madrid, finals day_

“So, you going to get revenge for me?”

Even as nervous as he feels, Stan can’t help laughing. “Rafa beat you in round two, Ben. It was hardly an upset. I’m not sure revenge applies.”

“How dare you, it was totally an upset,” Benoit says, and crosses his arms. (Stan may not be able to see him over the phone, but he can totally hear the crossed arms.) “You’re _such_ a supportive boyfriend. Are you going to get me my revenge or not?”

“You could get revenge on him yourself in Rome?” Stan offers. “He eats single-handed backhands for breakfast. I’m not sure I’m going to match up well.”

Benoit makes an impatient noise. “Oh hush. Stop thinking like that. You’re going to be awesome. You’re top ten on Monday, you’re the number one Swiss player in the Race to London, and you’ve got the best ass on tour. You’re going to go out there and defend all of that on the court...”

“You want me to go out there and defend my ass?” Stan asks, then looks around in a panic to make sure nobody heard that.

Benoit’s laugh is like a warm hand on the back of his neck, soothing and familiar. Stan feels his muscles relaxing, recognising the sound of happiness. “Well, Rafa does have the second best ass on tour. You’ve got to defend your place in the rankings, you know, or people will come along and steal it from you.”

“You rank asses,” Stan says, and it’s not a question. It sounds exactly like something Ben would do.

“Yours is always first, dearest,” Benoit says. 

“I still have to go out there and defend it, according to you.”

Benoit hums. “I’ll make you a deal. Try your best, and your ass won’t be sorry.”

“I always try my best,” Stan tells him.

“I know,” Benoit says, and manages to make it sound like the dirtiest promise known to man.

Stan’s not sure whether he’s got the most infuriating boyfriend, or the best.

On the plus side, he’s not really all that nervous about this final anymore...

~//~

_rome, semifinals day_

“Think it’s going to be a good match?” Benoit asks. He’s trying to keep his voice as light and as merry as usual, but even from as far away as Lausanne Stan can hear the strain bubbling under the surface.

He thinks of several answers, all in an instant. It’s Benoit’s first semifinal at this level – it was his first _quarterfinal_ at this level yesterday, and now he’s even a level further. _I’m proud of you_ , patronising; _it’ll be a gorgeous matchup_ , true but hardly helpful; _you don’t really have a chance_ , probably also true but even less helpful; _I love you_ , both a non sequitur and something they haven’t said yet, not straight out.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he finally decides. “It’s not every day Rog gets his butt kicked.”

Benoit’s laugh sounds a little fevered. “Yeah. He’s going down. That’s exactly what’s going to happen, I’m going to beat Roger fucking Federer and put myself in a Masters final.”

“Hey,” Stan says, immediately, even though he doesn’t know how he’s going to finish that sentence. He swallows. Rome suddenly seems very far away, too far away. “You can’t think like that. You’ve played amazing tennis this week. One more match.”

“Stop thinking, huh? Balls to the wall?”

Stan drums his fingers on the table, one two three. “You can do it, Ben. I believe in you.”

He listens to Benoit’s breathing for a long minute, hearing it even out.

“I suppose there _is_ one thing I have that Rog doesn’t,” Benoit says, finally. 

“Hmm?”

Benoit sounds almost shy, an adjective Stan wouldn’t normally think to apply to him. “You.”

Stan finds himself grinning, hanging on to the phone tightly enough to make his hand ache. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

~//~

v.

“So,” Benoit says, his eyes crinkled up, “how does it feel to have won Roland Garros?”

They’re in Paris. In Stan’s hotel room, to be exact; Benoit’s, as usual, is a complete mess, and Stan’s given up trying to persuade him to keep his clothes in the closet rather than strewn all over the floor. Better by far for Benoit to spend most of his time in Stan’s room, for multiple and convincing reasons involving mess and none at all involving the fact that waking up with Benoit’s cold nose pressed against his neck is one of the happiest parts of Stan’s day.

Currently, Benoit is standing in the middle of Stan’s hotel room wearing nothing but a garishly-coloured pair of underwear and a trademark smirk. 

“Ben,” Stan says, trying not to laugh, but feeling the corners of his mouth turn up anyway.

That earns him an exasperated look, and then Benoit’s bounding away to his gear bag and bending down to rummage in it. Stan settles back to enjoy the view. 

(Just a few minutes ago, he was sitting in the chair by the window, gazing unseeing out onto the Parisian streets. He’s been playing some of the best tennis in his career, everyone says so. He’s given Andy a thorough drubbing in Monte Carlo and nearly beat Jo, then won Portugal in fine fashion by thumping Daveed – no small task – and _then_ made it to only his second M1000 final by beating Grigor, Jo, and Tomas all in a row. 

Now, with the rest and recovery time that his strategic early withdrawal from Rome bought him, he’s fighting fit and ready to take on the world. It’s not the easiest draw for him, but what Slam draw ever is? For once in his life, he feels like on his best day he could beat anyone – anyone except Rafa, that is, and perhaps Rafa will get surprised by someone else.

And yet even as strong as Stan feels, even with the extra mental fortitude he’s built in recent years, even with the steel that it feels like he’s been laboriously transfusing into his veins…even with everything, one day of practice on the Parisian clay and all the old doubts have come rushing back. Is he ready for the big stage? Truly ready? Can he live up to everyone’s heightened expectations, or will he bow out meekly, leaving everyone shaking their heads?

Sitting by that window, he’d hardly heard the door open, or the noisy sighs of relief as Benoit shucked his clothes, or the footsteps towards him.

“You’re thinking again,” Benoit had said, with a touch of affectionate exasperation. “Stop thinking, you silly duck.” 

Stan had tipped his head back against the chair, looking at Ben’s upside-down face. “Not that easy.”

“Well, then,” Benoit had said after a thoughtful moment, “I’ll just have to come up with a plan to _make_ you stop.”

Back in the present, as Benoit rifles through his gear bag, Stan thinks that if giving him a view like this was Benoit’s plan to distract him from his doubts, it’s working perfectly.)

“Here!” Benoit says, triumphantly, brandishing … his Bourriquet mascot? 

Stan looks at it with a deep sense of foreboding. “Please tell me that Bourriquet isn’t supposed to represent the Coupe des Mousquetaires.”

Benoit just grins at him and grabs a racquet as well, holding it up to his mouth like a microphone. “I’m courtside with the new champion of Roland Garros, Stanislas Wawrinka.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Stan says, laughing, whether at Bourriquet, or Benoit’s underwear, or whatever it is Benoit’s playing at, he doesn’t really know.

Benoit comes back over and puts Bourriquet into Stan’s arms. His eyes are bright as they meet Stan’s, and even under the silly circumstances the affection dancing in them makes Stan’s heart skip a beat. “Listen to that crowd cheer,” Benoit says, after a moment, his voice slightly rougher. “They want to hear their champion speak.”

He can’t exactly drop Bourriquet – Benoit would never forgive him – so Stan tucks the stuffed animal under his elbow and stares at the racquet-microphone Benoit holds out to him. 

Outside the window, Paris is bustling by. Not too far away, Roland Garros has started, with all the chatter and the hurrying, the victories and the defeats, the clay and the crowds and the contests. Soon they’ll both be plunged into it, fighting for the prize along with all the rest.

But here in their hotel room, they’re just Stan and Benoit, assorted lumps of gear, a racquet-microphone, and a stuffed donkey. 

“So, how does it feel to have won Roland Garros?”

It’s Benoit’s voice again, Benoit’s soft laugh-flecked inflections, but suddenly Stan can almost hear the roar of the crowds behind him. He can almost feel the clay drying on his cheek from his celebratory roll, his clothes clinging stickily and sweatily to his body, lank and terrible and yet perfect. He can almost taste the tang of victory in his mouth.

What _would_ it feel like to win Roland Garros?

If Stan was superstitious, he’d never even consider the question. He’d tackle Benoit down on the bed and distract him from all such inquiries, then get back to doing his job on the court and letting the results play out as they will. 

But Stan isn’t superstitious. He closes his eyes and lets himself imagine, just for a moment.

“There are so many people who made this miracle possible,” he says, keeping his eyes closed, as if thousands of Parisians hold their breath on the other side, hanging on every word. “The tournament directors, my team, you the audience. Thank you.”

Goosebumps run up his arms, prickling. He’s not French, but he thinks somehow that the crowd would love him, would cheer the sound of their language spilling fluently if ineloquently from his lips. If he does actually get to the final, he’ll prepare a little speech, just in case, but here and now he only has his own stumbling words.

“There are also some very special people I have to thank,” he says, and keeps his eyes shut, still holding on to the spell. “My daughter Alexia, who taught me to live for the future.” If he gets to the final – hell, if he gets to the quarterfinals – he’ll ask Ilham to bring her to watch. He can imagine Alexia in the stands, waving to him; or perhaps she’s standing by his leg, holding on to his knee. 

It’d be easy to end the fantasy here, to put down the trophy and scoop Alexia up in his arms, holding her close and listening to the crowds roar. But there’s one more thing…

“And Ben, who taught me to live for the present.”

When he reaches out, still obstinately blind, still hearing the crowds and feeling the clay under his feet, Benoit comes into his arms, meek and quiet as he never is, and when Stan claims his victor’s kiss, Benoit gasps against his mouth, small and breathless.

The racquet-microphone is caught between them. It’s poking Stan in uncomfortable places. He doesn’t particularly care.

He pulls back at last, resting his forehead against Benoit’s for a moment. When he finally opens his eyes, Benoit’s smiling, and somehow that’s even more beautiful than the crowds Stan had been imagining.

“As if you’d kiss me during the trophy ceremony,” Benoit says, his voice teasing. “You’re far too shy.”

Stan doesn’t grin back, sees Benoit’s smile falter for a moment. “Ben,” he says, and he hears the rasp in his own voice, “if I win Roland Garros, I’m climbing into the _stands_ to kiss you.”

Benoit swallows. 

It won’t happen, Stan knows it won’t. Even playing the best tennis of his life, he’s not going to be the one to hoist the Coupe des Mousquetaires over his head; it’ll be Novak, in full shirt-ripping glory, or Rafa, in sheer joyful thankfulness. If not even Roger really has a chance this year, how much less does he?

And yet, looking into Ben’s eyes and seeing the belief shining there, he finds a tendril in himself.

“You’ll be all sweaty and stinky,” Benoit says after a long moment, his voice light. “And covered in clay. Maybe I won’t want you getting your stink all over me.”

Stan rolls his eyes. 

He turns away to set Bourriquet down on the table, then after a second’s consideration faces him towards the window, away from the bed. Bourriquet is a children’s toy, after all.

“Oh,” Benoit says happily a minute later, surprised and laughing and warm under his hands, “we’ve skipped straight to the victory sex!”

“I hear it’s amazing,” Stan tells him, and takes the racquet-microphone from his hand before pushing him down on the bed.

(Later, some brilliant hours later, Stan pauses to surreptitiously rub the top of Bourriquet’s ears on his way out the door. For luck. Because he’s not superstitious, but it can’t hurt, right?

He doesn’t think Benoit catches him doing it, but when he opens his bag on court for his first match, Bourriquet is nestled securely inside. Stan barely suppresses a smile, and then remembers he doesn’t have to; he grins, and touches Bourriquet’s ears, and strides out to the coin toss, still beaming. 

Bourriquet ends up having a very adventurous Roland Garros. So do Stan and Benoit.)

~//~

i.

“Stop thinking,” Benoit pants, as Stan holds himself suspended in the warmth of their bed, content to watch and feel and touch and soak everything in. “ _Move_ , goddamnit.”

Stan leans down to kiss into Benoit’s mouth, thrilling as always at the ready easy way Ben opens up to him, at the familiar impatient slide of Ben’s tongue against his own, at the little exasperated huff of Ben’s breath and the demanding pull of Ben’s fingers in his hair.

“I’ll move when I’m good and ready to,” he says, against his partner’s lips. 

Benoit groans, hooking an insistent heel into the small of his back, pulling him closer. 

The mirror above the headboard catches the glint of Benoit’s trophies, sitting nonchalantly on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Stan’s are modestly tucked away in a closet in the guest room, but Ben keeps his most important ones where he can see them every morning when he wakes up. (Stan might feel jealous, but he also knows full well that the _first_ thing Benoit looks for when he wakes up isn’t a trophy.) The racquet Ben won his first Slam with hangs in pride of place – no giving it away to the Pope for Benoit, definitely not – 

“Stop _thinking_ ,” Ben says in affectionate agony, and drags his fingernails down Stan’s back, pinpricks of pain and rush of pleasure all at once.

Stan grins, and moves. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of watching Benoit’s eyes drop shut, his head tip back, his teeth catch at his lip; he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing that little sob of breath or feeling all that expanse of bare skin pressed up against him. It’s been years now, and he’s just as much in love with Ben as he’s ever been, just as hungry for him, just as close. He doesn’t think that will ever change, and it makes him want to laugh for the happiness of it.

There _is_ something, however, that he needs to clear up. “You love it when I think,” he says, leaning down to nip under Benoit’s chin.

“How do you figure that?” Benoit says, his voice uneven, his fingers still clutching at Stan’s shoulders. “Because I’ve told you to stop approximately eighty-five trillion times?”

“I’ve seen the _Princess Bride_ ,” Stan tells him. It’s Alexia’s favourite film, something about a ‘cult classic’. He doesn’t pretend to understand youth culture, but it’s not a bad film. “And I know that _as you wish_ really means _I love you_.”

“Yes, if you’re a complete soppy duck,” Benoit says, pushing impatiently up at him. “I think I can manage to tell you I love you without putting it in code. Right now I love your dick, though, so could you please get a fucking move on? God, you’re slower than Rafa used to be on serve.”

Stan grins and obliges. “You _do_ like it when I think, though,” he repeats, obstinately.

Ben rolls his eyes. “Yes, you’re very cute when you brood. Maybe it does make me want to get you to laugh and chase the demons away.” He pushes his hips up impatiently. “Now, unless you’re actually going to bring out some handcuffs and do this interrogation properly, if you wouldn’t mind shutting up and _moving_ …”

Stan steals the rest of the words from his mouth, and stops thinking.

~//~

**Author's Note:**

>  **Grandpa:** [voiceover] That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying "As you wish", what he meant was, "I love you." And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back.  
>  **Buttercup:** Farm boy... fetch me that pitcher.  
>  [It's right over her head, so he has to stand next to her]  
>  **Westley:** As you wish.  
>  [Cut to them kissing]  
>  **The Grandson:** [interrupting] Hold it, hold it. What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Where's the sports?  
>  **The Grandson:** [suspiciously] Is this a kissing book?  
>  **Grandpa:** Wait, just wait.  
>  **The Grandson:** Well, when does it get good?  
>  **Grandpa:** Keep your shirt on and let me read.


End file.
